The Highwayman
by PrimaDoctor
Summary: John compares his feelings to a poem. Post- Reichenbach, Johnlock Angsty. I do not own "The Highwayman" This poem is by Alfred Noyes, a wonderful poet. /archive/potw85.html That is the link for the original poem.


I do not own BBC Sherlock, or Alfred Noyes' poem, "The Highwayman" There are many similarites between the poem and John's (supposed) feelings after Sherlock died.

"Come on, Shirley, It'll be fun!"

"John, you know I despise anything that is not of purpose."

"Pictures are of purpose!"

"No, they are not. They are a waste of material."

"They help you capture memories."

"Might I remind you, John, I did not have the most sentiment inducing childhood."

"You didn't take pictures?"

"Of course we did, on a regular basis. It was quite preposterous."

"Fine Sherlock. If you don't come, I will throw out the ears in the fridge."

"No!" One of them is Van Gough's!"

"Ooh, which one?"

"I don't know." Sherlock muttered softly.

"Sorry, what?

"I don't know."

"Sorry, one more time?"

"I don't know, John. I'm going to regret letting you sleep in my bed if you continue to rob me of my dignity."

"Alright Shirley, I'm sorry." Suddenly remembering what they had been arguing about.

"Put on your coat. We're going."

Sherlock sighed. He pulled on his scarf and watched the- his doctor, his solider, pull on his coat. As John finished, he looked up at his, one and only consulting detective, so unique and a dark angel, complete with Cupid's bow lips. They walked down the stairs, hand in hand, partly to keep Sherlock from escaping back to 221B. This also was partially because John was a hopeless romantic, and loved holding Shirley's hand.

"John, your face is a picture book. Now please, hide your feelings a bit better, will you?"

John flushed burgundy and turned away, but turned back because he knew Sherlock would know anyway. That is the problem with having a genius boyfriend. No secrets, no crap telly, no- normal. John didn't mind. He had become used to his partners peaked, pale face. Their love had reminded him of a poem. The Highwayman, it was called, and it was a tale of two lovers-

THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,  
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,  
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  
And the highwayman came riding—  
Riding—riding—  
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,  
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;  
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!  
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,  
His pistol butts a-twinkle,  
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,  
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;  
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there  
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,  
Bess, the landlord's daughter,  
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked  
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;  
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,  
But he loved the landlord's daughter,  
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,  
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

V

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,  
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;  
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,  
Then look for me by moonlight,  
Watch for me by moonlight,  
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,  
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand  
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;  
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,  
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)  
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO

I

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;  
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,  
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,  
A red-coat troop came marching—  
Marching—marching—  
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

II

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,  
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;  
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!  
There was death at every window;  
And hell at one dark window;  
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that _he_ would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;  
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!  
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.  
She heard the dead man say—  
_Look for me by moonlight;_  
_Watch for me by moonlight;_  
_I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!_

IV

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!  
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!  
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,  
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,  
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,  
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!  
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,  
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;  
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;  
Blank and bare in the moonlight;  
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

VI

_Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!_ Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;  
_Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot,_ in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?  
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,  
The highwayman came riding,  
Riding, riding!  
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

_Tlot-tlot,_ in the frosty silence! _Tlot-tlot,_ in the echoing night!  
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!  
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,  
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,  
Her musket shattered the moonlight,  
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

VIII

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood  
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!  
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear  
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,  
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,  
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,  
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!  
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,  
When they shot him down on the highway,  
Down like a dog on the highway,  
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

X

_And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,__  
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,__  
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,__  
A highwayman comes riding—__  
Riding—riding—__  
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door._

XI

_Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;__  
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;__  
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there__  
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,__  
Bess, the landlord's daughter,__  
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair._


End file.
